A hawk grabs a dove

from the mesquite tree

in my backyard.

It’s a precise event,

too decisive to be tragic,

at first.

Recently, I’ve been imagining

my death. Indulging

in the deconstruction

of my limbs. Easing

into surrender.

I didn’t consider the pain.

The screech. The sound

of twigs falling into the dirt

and then the quiet.

In bed that night, I ask my lover

to devour me. But he knows,

somehow, what I’ve seen.

He smiles sweetly and kisses

the tip of my ear.